


'Til Kingdom Come

by SueG5123



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueG5123/pseuds/SueG5123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Election Night AU in which Mac bolts before Will's epiphany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Drummer Begins to Drum

When they returned from break, Don’s voice was in Will’s ear. At first, nothing seemed out of place with that, since Mac and Don had alternated in Control throughout the election night coverage. But after a few minutes, as Elliot droned on about ballots in Racine, Will began to suspect that perhaps Mac wasn’t in the booth. His eyes darted around with the realization.

 _For Mac to have abandoned her post during election night coverage_ —well, he knew then how deeply he must have wounded her in their earlier confrontation in Hair and Makeup.

“Cage your eyes, Will,” Don instructed through the earpiece. “We’re going back to you in ten seconds. Elliot, start to wind it up.”

That cinched it. Mac wasn’t in Control. She would never have let Don handle the rebuke; she would have done it herself.

When Will heard Herb’s signal for break, he ripped the earpiece from his ear and went directly to his office. He needed a smoke and time to think about this. But then Charlie intercepted him with some babble about the Pretraeus timeline and someone named Jedediah Purdy.

“Will? It’s gotten strange now—“

“ _She_. Except for the things she did wrong, _she_ did everything right, too. The rest was me.”

 _Me. It_ was _me. I staged a confrontation where I was guaranteed to win, because I had stacked the deck. I lied._

Lie upon lie, culminating in the worst one, that not only had the ring had been a joke, a rejoinder ( _an actual_ _literal riposte, really, one that was sharp and wounding)_ , but that he had returned the ring after its dirty work.

This lie was eminently believable. After all, what would be the problem with having blown a quarter million on a ring to punish her in an afternoon’s time, when he’d already given back three million to be able to fire her at will?

He had to find her and stop this.

Her office was dark and empty. Hair and Makeup, too, was deserted. He returned to the floor and poked his head into Control, hoping she may have returned. “Does anyone know where MacKenzie is?”

“I think she’s in the Hair and Makeup room.”

“She’s not.”

“Did you look in her office?”

“So, no—no one knows where she is?” His aggravation spiked exponentially.

Herb’s reminder that, “We’re back in seven minutes, so she’s gonna turn up,” was no consolation.

Will dashed back to the bullpen and intercepted by Tess mouthing some nonsense about the mid-west.

“At this moment, I have never cared less about the Great Lakes region.” Then, throwing discretion to the wind, he shouted, “Has anyone seen Mac?”

But no one had.               

Distracted, with a growing sense of foreboding, Will allowed Maggie to take him back to the desk for the remainder of election coverage.

_He’d fix this. He’d find her, he’d tell her it was a misunderstanding, he didn’t mean it—that there was no way they could do the show without her. No way he could do the show without her. He needed her, and not just for the show. That he’d waited too long and he was sorry, but they could fix this._

After the show, Don and Sloan trailed Will back to his office.

“She didn’t say anything?”

“She didn’t say she was going AWOL, if that’s what you mean,” Don hedged. “She asked me if I could take the show for a bit longer. I just thought she meant she needed a longer break.”

Will looked at Sloan.

“Don’t ask me. You know where I’ve been all night.”

He began sloughing off his jacket and tie.

“Wait—here’s Jim—he might—“

Jim barreled through the glass door, eyes fixed on Will.

“You miserable piece of shit. How could you do that? You should have begged her to stay, out of self-interest, if nothing else—but, no, not _you_ —“

Sloan turned back to Will. “Will, what’s this about?”

“Tess overheard—you _fired_ her, and now she’s gone, and _you_ did this—“

“It was a mistake—I’m going to tell her—“

“Well, she took you at your word, because she’s gone.” Jim glared at him. “No need to call Charlie about my insubordination, that’s my next stop.”

He turned and left.

“Fired who, Will?” Sloan pressed, the obvious name already occurring to her. “Not _Mac_ —“

Will sagged against the edge of his desk. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that. She _wanted_ me to—“

Sloan clapped a hand over her mouth.

Don stepped back. “You sit there and think about this, Will. Get all your ducks in formation, because Charlie’s going to be down here in about two minutes and he’s going to want to know why. And don’t be surprised if Rebecca Halliday doesn’t show up soon, too, because you probably just handed Dantana a settlement.” He shook his head. “This is seriously fucked up.”

 

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Charlie raged for the umpteenth time, beyond any expectation of receiving a reasonable response. “You fired your EP—which, by itself, is a fuck up of monumental proportions—you compromised AWM’s standing in a high profile lawsuit—you’ll probably be in the headlines tomorrow, _News Night Anchor Fires Producer in a Snit During Live Election Coverage_.” He brought both hands up to his head in frustration, fingers splayed and clawing at the air.

“—And not only has this network lost the best EP in fucking television, but one of our brightest senior producers just quit.”

“Jim’ll come around. Mac’ll make him. And she—she’ll be back as soon as I can reach her—“

“Your optimism warms my heart,” Charlie returned sarcastically. “Nice to see you’re capable of _utter delusion_ —“

“Charlie, I—“

“Will, you’re very near the unemployment line yourself right now. I’ve got to get ahold of Leona and she’s going to be furious. She went to bat for us and you just sunk the legal strategy with the lawsuit. Not to mention the fact that now we’re down two producers _,_ two _really_ _good_ producer _s_ , and the bench isn’t deep enough to sustain that kind of loss.” Charlie stopped for effect. “Why, Will? What so provoked you that _you lost your fucking mind_ —“

“She asked me to—but that’s not entirely—“

Charlie dipped his chin. “I should hope.”

“There was an argument—rehashing some things that happened years ago—“

“So. Firing MacKenzie was a history practicum?”

 _Fuck_. Will felt too sick to respond.

“Did you tell HR you fired her?”

“When have I had time?”

Charlie locked his arms across his chest and moved back to lean against the table. “She isn’t fired if HR doesn’t know about it. You can still turn this around.”

“I’m trying. No one knows more than I do how quickly and how badly this went to worms.” Will exhaled heavily. “She isn’t picking up her phone—“

“I’m sure I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to take your calls right now.”

“Sloan’s tried, too—“

“Well, have her keep trying. You’ve got to walk this back.” Charlie turned his face heavenward. “Christ. _What the fuck were you thinking_?”

 

Next morning, Dantana’s petition proved only a minor blip on the ACN radar screen, overshadowed by breaking news of the Guatemalan earthquake, a car bomb in Damascus, and the on-going tallying of votes in Florida, where the presidential election was still considered too close to call.  Any disingenuous whining about an absence of professionalism at ACN was stifled by actual news, and if Charlie Skinner was grateful for that, he was more so that there was no media mention of any discord at ACN the night before. Specifically, no mention of an EP having been terminated in the midst of a broadcast.

Neither had there been any known contact with Mac, although Charlie had an update.

“I got a call this morning from Franklin Sears at ITV, wanting to know why MacKenzie was calling him about a position.” Charlie fanned his fingertips over the surface of his desk. “So Mac’s not only left the studio, she’s leaving the damn country.”

Will stumbled to his feet. “What’s the job? Tell me where and—I’ll go and—“

“Sit down.”   Charlie moved some papers around to reveal his cell phone and seized it. “Frankly, you don’t have the skill-set needed to go anywhere Mackenzie might be heading. Even if I knew where to send you, which I don’t. Some Director of Morale you turned out to be,” he harrumphed. “The bullpen looked as collegial as an Arctic ice-sheet when you walked in today. Anyone speak to you?”

Will shook his head slowly.

“You’re off the show, Will. Two weeks. Leona’s mad as hell right now and she’ll definitely buy into a little disciplinary leave of absence, which we’ll publicly characterize as vacation. Jane can keep your desk warm.”

Will rolled his eyes.

Charlie scrolled through his cell phone contacts. “I’ve got to make a few calls. Make yourself scarce around here.”

 

Will was careful to watch the opening of _News Night_ that night. Charlie hadn’t mentioned taking Will’s name off the show during this leave of absence, and, contractually, Will would’ve had to buy into such an action, as he had on the 9/11 broadcast. When Jane Barrow was characterized as “sitting in for Will McAvoy,” he muted the sound and twisted the cap to his third beer.

His name still being on the show was a relief. Leona might be mad but she wouldn’t axe the show.

MacKenzie still hadn’t returned a call or text message.

He took a long pull from the bottle and opened his email account.

_Mac, I’m sorry. I lost my temper and things got out of hand. You’re not fired. I need you on the show. Please call me._

It didn’t seem enough, so he hesitated hitting the send key.

As his fingers lifted from the keyboard, the phone rang. _Perfect timing_ , he thought.

Except the phone indicated the caller was Sloan Sabbith.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on TV right now?”

“Nah. Since Jane’s on, Don says there’d be an explosion of estrogen on the set. I’ll be counter-balancing Elliot later.”

He grunted.

“Will? She’s not returning my calls. And I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Maggie went by her place and managed to talk the supe into letting her in. Mac’s just gone.” When he didn’t say anything she prompted him again. “Will?”

“I think Jane needs to lose weight,” he deflected, looking at the TV screen.

“I’m not buying your non sequitur, and by the way, that’s the most misogynistic thing I’ve ever heard fall from your lips. What Jane needs to lose is twenty gross of bitchiness.”

“Hey, Sloan, in your little fractured fairy tale, was I Goldilocks or was I the bear? Because I really—“

“Planets, not bears. And perfection and radioactivity. Didn’t think I was being obscure about any of that.”

“Guess I confused myself, then.”

“Nothing new there. Will, I’ve got to go to final rundown. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. Good show, Sloan.”

 

Charlie called three days later with an update. Mac had abruptly cancelled the meeting with Charlie’s ITV counterpart, although Charlie felt it meant that a different opportunity had suddenly cropped up and she had availed herself of it.

“I’m still running this down, but I think she may have hooked up with the German public broadcasting arm. _Das Erste_ —that’s the national broadcast, sort of like _60 Minutes_ but with people not yet eligible for AARP—has a crew in Lebanon, right on the Beruit-to-Damascus road.”

“Lebanon—hang on—“ Will pulled up a map on his laptop. “That’s adjacent to—“

“Syria. Lebanon’s probably the safest _dangerous_ place for a journalist to be in those parts.” Charlie sighed. “Have you talked to Mac’s parents?”

There was a protracted silence, then, “I haven’t talked to them in years. It would be—awkward.”

“Right. Well, evidently, Mac hasn’t talked to her parents recently, either. And, awkwardness aside, I called them. So, of course, now they’re worried. Wondering what else they don’t know. But the ambassador reminded me she has dual citizenship—“

“And?—“

“Two passports. _And_ personal contacts in the U.K. Foreign Ministry. What he was getting at was, she has a broad range of options open to her. I don’t know, Will. Seems to me like she’s bound to try to contact Sloan or one of the kids downstairs eventually—perhaps it would be better if we waited.“

“You wait, Charlie. I’m not waiting. How can I get in touch with this German crew?”

“They’re based in Zahle. They probably zip into Aleppo or Damascus and then back out before it gets dicey.”

“Zahle isn’t that far from Beirut.”

“—But Beirut isn’t the Paris of the Middle East anymore. Hasn’t been since the seventies, before the civil war. Infrastructure is still coming back and transportation in-country may be problematic. Not to mention—it’s still near dangerous places—“

“I can handle myself—“

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a talking head, Will. You’re not a field correspondent. You have no clue what you would be getting into.”

“I’m on vacation, remember?” Will never liked raising his voice to Charlie, but he had to get this through. “I can do any damned thing I want on vacation. And besides—ACN has me insured.” He cultivated a flippant tone. “Reese would get a—“

“Shut up.” Charlie wanted to put the kibosh on that entire line of thought. It might jinx things.   Another long pause, and Will could picture Charlie twisting his mouth in thought.

“Well, if ACN is going to underwrite this ridiculous little adventure, you’ll have to do it my way. Hang tight. I’ll get back to you.”

 

A week after election day, Will dropped his carry-on in a cushioned chair at the Admirals Club Lounge at JFK. He accepted a Diet Coke from the server and dug out his boarding pass. There weren’t many options for nonstop service to Lebanon, but Royal Jordanian promised greater creature comforts than, say, Aeroflot. He reviewed the itinerary again, then scanned the room. A familiar figure sat far away from the door.

Jim Harper.

Will walked over to him and stood there until Jim acknowledged him.

“Charlie send you here to tell me you’re sorry?”

“I’m here because Charlie thinks you’ll need a producer.” Jim folded his newspaper. “And, by the way, I’m not sorry.”

“You know where she—“

Jim held up his own boarding pass. “Would I be going this route if I did?”

Will shifted his weight. “Something to drink?”

“I’ll wait till we board.”

Jim was trying to make a point with his frosty demeanor. Charlie Skinner had wooed him into going, more to afford a level of safety to McAvoy than do much significant producing. But this would be no partnership. This was merely a means to an end, and the end was finding Mac. Convince her that Genoa wasn’t her fault, and that McAvoy, even _News Night_ , was better left in the rear view mirror. Convince her to come back to the States, anyway, where there were options at ABC or even the D.C. or west coast bureaus of ACN. Charlie would do whatever it took to keep Mac in the fold. And if Mac wouldn’t return, then Jim would insist that she find him a place on her new team, wherever it was.

“Do you know what parachute journalism is? It’s when some pretty boy television reporter shows up in a hot spot for a short period of time, covering only one story, then bugs out. Really burns the hell out of the correspondents who’ve been on the ground for months, years, specializing in one locale or one story.”

“And your point is—?“

“Having seen enough of it, I never thought I’d be doing it myself.”

“Well, I won’t deny this is self-serving, in a way. But it isn’t self-aggrandisement.”

Jim grunted. “I just want us to be clear on this. Mac left you and I’m not going to second guess why. I’m only going on this jaunt to find Mac. You and I are going to stay out of each other’s way. Got it?”

Will turned. “I read you.”

 

Twenty three hours and a layover in Amman later, they were met at the airport by a pre-arranged driver with a Subaru, and then driven 90 minutes over an ill-maintained, crowded four lane highway before being finally deposited at the Zahle centerpiece, the Cristal Grand Hotel Kahdri.

The only message waiting for Will was from Charlie.

_Call._

It was 5am in New York. He’d return the call later. Instead, Will hovered nearby as Jim made calls to pinpoint the _Das Erste_ team.

The Germans were in motion, having just returned from a few days over the border. Men were unloading camera gear, bedding, and coolers from their SUV. Jim introduced himself and Will to the leader of the team, Mathias, who told them the team from _Danmarks Radio,_ which pooled coverage with _Das Erste_ , had just relieved them in Damascus.

Mathias shook his head at Jim’s rushed questions in pidgin German. “ _Nein, nein, hier ist niemand Namens_ MacKenzie.”

Will didn’t need a translator to get the gist of the conversation. MacKenzie wasn’t with the _Das Erste_ team. He needed to talk to Charlie, have him do further investigation from his end.

Mathias indicated his team would return to Syria in a few days. He scrawled a name on the back of a card and passed it to Jim. “ _Sprecher_. Fixer for you. You have time to establish your situation.” He paused. “ _Nehmen Sie eine Dusche_ ,” he added with a grin and a shrug before turning to follow his laughing mates. “ _Der Zirkus kommt in die Stadt_.”

Jim tugged at his ear as he watched the Germans walk away.

Will exhaled. “I’ll call Charlie in a few hours, see if anything has popped up. In the meantime, I think we owe it to the company to file _something_.”

“You’re not still thinking of going with them to Damascus?” Jim asked, inclining his head to indicate the German journalists.

“I don’t know—if I knew for sure where Mac—“

“Look, Will, this is your show. But I didn’t particularly like the way Mathias talked, and—“

“You don’t trust him?” Will’s eyebrow shot up. “What’s up?”

“I didn’t say I don’t trust him. I just don’t like some of the things he said.”

“You aren’t going to tell me.”

“I’d rather be sure. Let’s make the call to ACN together, and maybe Gary can help me out with my German.”

 

Will returned to the hotel and napped for a few hours. In early evening, when Jim knocked at the door, he entered carrying a guitar case.

“Bought it off an expat who was leaving to go back to the States.” He flicked open one of the fasteners. “Have you called Charlie yet?”

“Calling now.” Will hit the number on his cell as Jim lifted an inexpensive Yamaha dreadnought from the case.  

Will began laughing. “Were you looking in a mirror when you bought it?”

“No. Why, what’s— _shit_.”

Will was still laughing. “You gonna do Kurt Cobain’s greatest hits?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Jim repeated, staring at the decidedly left-handed guitar.

Will took pity on him. “Okay, you can make a little modification to the bridge and restring it—“ He turned his attention back to the phone. “Millie, it’s Will. Is the old man in his office yet?”

“Oh, to be young again and on assignment—“ Charlie’s voice crooned over the cell.

“Knock it off, Charlie. She’s not here. We met up with the ARD crew today and she’s not with them.”

“Oh, she’s there,” Charlie returned, and Will could picture him pulling his head back in his characteristic pose of determination, the wind-up before the pitch. “But we were wrong about the Germans. She’s with an outfit called DR—“

“ _Danmarks Radio_ ,” Will finished for him. “Jim’s with me so I’m putting you on speaker, okay?”

“It seems the Danes and the Germans have an arrangement, some sort of journalistic tag-team approach. That’s what confused things. But she’s there. I have it from Magnus Lunde, my counterpart at DR.”

“Then she’s in Damascus now,” Will said, shooting a significant look at Jim, who had put down the guitar and moved nearer.

“And she’ll be back in a few days. Magnus said the rotation was regular. You know, the most insidious part of live reportage from warzones isn’t the exposure to live fire or IEDs or the threat of chemical weapons. It’s the tedium.”

“Do you actually believe _anything_ you’re saying right now?”

“Every fucking word. News doesn’t always arrive on a timetable to that synchs with your deadline. These guys are on a beat. Unfortunately for them—and, incidentally, _fortunately_ for us—there doesn’t seem to be much news on their beat right now.” Charlie sighed audibly. “Patience, Will. She’s coming back. Just wait a day or two. And you know you can always pass the time by reporting.”

“We had an idea,” Jim spoke up, surprising Will by including him under the umbrella of credit. “There’s a helluva influx of Syrian refugees and Lebanon is absorbing the brunt of it. Perhaps upwards of one million by the end of the year. We thought we’d go out and look at some of the camps—“

“There you go, _that’s_ the kind of pluck I’m looking for.”

“Hey, Charlie, can you transfer me down to Gary Cooper in the bullpen? I need some German language skills—“

“Better, I’ll transfer you to Sloan. Did you know she’s fluent in a trifecta of Axis Powers languages?” Then Charlie’s voice changed timbre. “Both of you stay safe out there. It’s an unfamiliar environment, one slightly removed from the urban dangers of Manhattan. And Jim Harper, I just want to make sure you know that in the history of television, no producer has ever advanced who got his on camera talent injured.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Roger that.”

“I’ll transfer the call now— _Millie, how do I_ —“

               

A few hours later, Jim found Will at the hotel bar.

“ _Sprechen Sie Deutsch_? You get your translations?”

“Yeah. The German guy—Mathias—was just being a smart-ass.”

“What did he say to get you so fired up?”

“He said we should take a bubble bath. Probably a dig about our hotel and ACN having deeper pockets than the ARD. But then he said that the _circus_ had come to town and that’s what his pals were laughing at. He meant us. We’re the circus.”

“Celebrity journalist. Or whatever it was you said the other day about parachutes.” Will dug a thumbnail under the beer’s label and began to peel it up. “Fuck ‘em.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Jim echoed as the barkeep put a beer in front of him. “You want to do the refugee story? No one’s been covering it, it’s valid and newsworthy. Charlie seemed interested.”

“Sure. Let’s do the news. _To pass the time_.”

Jim caught Will’s tone but wasn’t sure what else to say, so they both sat silent for long minutes. Then, finally, “I’ve given this a lot of thought these past few days, and I don’t think she was throwing herself on the grenade for you. Or ACN. She felt she’d betrayed your trust—“ As the words left his mouth, Jim realized he should have used more discriminating phraseology; he wanted to be clear he was speaking of _Genoa_ , not whatever had occurred between Will and Mac years before. “She didn’t see it as sacrifice, she saw it as punishment, something she deserved.”

Will looked up again, jaw clenched, and Jim once more guiltily noted the strong potential for elided meaning.

“I mean, she knew she had your professional trust and she felt that she’d misused it. Not riding Jerry harder. The fucked up Stomtonovich interview. Not asking more questions.”

“Stop.” Will held up the flat of his hand. “What I said was, I trust Charlie and Mac. I _still_ trust Charlie and Mac. Genoa had nothing to do with—with her—“ He couldn’t find words to continue.

“I’m fairly certain that wouldn’t be what she thought. She heard, you trusted _her_. That’s why it’s so personal. I mean, this isn’t really professional embarrassment—it’s penance.”

“It’s neither, Jim,” Will responded testily. “I fired her. I shot off my goddam mouth and said things just to hurt her. It had nothing to do with Genoa. It was—personal.”

Another few minutes passed silently between them. Jim wasn’t sure why he felt suddenly conciliatory instead of angry with McAvoy, with this mess that Will acknowledged that he had instigated. Maybe he felt sorry for him. But Jim wanted to be careful not to say the wrong thing, although he wasn’t at all sure what the right thing was.

“It’s hard to pin down, this—regard I have for her. It isn’t a brother-sister thing, because I’ve got a sister, you know. Mac’s good at what she does, really good, so I guess some of it is admiration. I think—I think I might have been in love with her for the first fifteen minutes after meeting her. Until I figured out it wouldn’t do any good.”

Will wouldn’t look at him.

Jim drained the last of his beer. “In 2007, a comet passed through my life. I was dazzled and I’ve been pulled along by gravity ever since.” He stood and threw a wad of Lebanese pound notes on the bar. “We’ve got a driver to take us to Bar Elias, the nearest of the refugee camps, tomorrow. It isn’t far but it may be a rough ride. Get some sleep, Will.”

“Wait—Jim—“

“Yeah?”

“You think she ever worries about stray bullets in small wars?”

“For herself, you mean?” He shook his head. “I wish she did.”

 

Two nights later, Jim returned Will to the Grand Hotel Kahdri and called room service for ice and scotch and housekeeping for extra towels. After seeing to the administration of the first shot of painkilling booze, Jim went in search of Mathias and his crew. Restaurants attractive to Westerners were sparse enough that he found the Germans on the third try. He made sure to catch Mathias’ eye as he walked in.

“ _Hallo! Unser amerikanischer Freund_!” Our American friend.

Mathias nudged his mates.

“ _Wie war_ —“ he pantomimed driving. “Your ride?”

Wearing a thin smile, Jim came over.

The crew roared with laughter. Jim was handling having been made the butt of a joke with admirable dignity, but the German journalists, now well into their cups, still found great amusement in remembering the prank on their American colleagues.

“ _Reisezirkus_ ,” Jim shrugged. Traveling circus.

More laughter. Jim motioned to the waiter to bring another round of beers. Mathias kicked a chair toward him and Jim sat, trying to maintain his sheepish little smile as he coolly assessed how drunk they were and how drunk they might become if he assisted. He joined them in the first round, but neglected to keep up, so that they plowed into the second round he bought without him. By the third round, Jim had managed to convince Mathias and the others that he held no grudge, that he didn’t much care for the “ _zirkus_ ” either.

Jim slipped away after that, having palmed Mathias’ key ring during a moment of calculated bonhomie. He went to the dowdy ground floor apartment the Germans used as a base and looked around. Their gear was packed, the duffels stacked and ready for an early morning departure. Rows of battery chargers glowed, charging the deep cycle nickel-cadmium batteries needed for the cameras.

Jim unplugged every one.

“When you’re a Jet, motherfuckers.”


	2. My Time Has Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Mac, goddammit, I love you. I want to bring you home—let me—“ He reached for her hand. She fled._

Jim saw her right away from across the room, unmistakably Mac. She wore jeans and an oversized olive drab T shirt, and she was bent over a duffel, pulling out cables and a tripod as she obviously searched for something. She glanced up at about the same time he took his first step towards her.

“Jim— _Jim_? _Jimmy_? Is that you?” A smile of surprise and pure pleasure lit her face. “Jim! What are you doing here?” She flew into his arms, hugging him with considerable strength.

“Mac. It’s great to see you.” He pulled away from the embrace and studied her face.

“Well? How do I look? Do I pass inspection?” she laughed.

“You look like you can still kick my ass.” In truth, he thought she looked thinner, if possible, than when he’d last seen her.

“I can. Don’t you forget it.” She laughed again. “Jim, I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” He paused. “Mac, I’m not alone.”

“Oh? Bring the Marines, did you?”

His sober expression began to play havoc with her light tone.

“I’m here with Will.”

“Will? You brought him here— _here?_ First off, what in God’s name were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous—“

“He would have come without me—“

“He’s a fool. You never used to be.”

“Neither did you,” he returned. “Mac, when did you start believing that you could convince me you’re here because you want to be? That this is anything but the last choice for you? That this isn’t fucking déjà vu all over again?”

She said nothing and he softened his tone.

“Mac, you shouldn’t be here. There’s something absurd—“

“It isn’t absurd to have a place—“

“You _had_ one.”

“And it worked out so well for me.”

He looked around the room with mild disapproval. “They’re paying you what you’re worth?”

She gave a short laugh. “No one is ever paid what they’re worth, Jimmy, you know that. But they’re giving me a stipend for expenses, and—“

“A stipend. They’re treating you like an intern.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me,” she said, pronouncing each syllable distinctly and slowly for possible penetration.

“It bothers me.”

“Well.” Humor faded from her expression. She swallowed. “Is he here now?”

Jim inclined his head toward the door.

Involuntarily, she retreated an inch.

“You’re here on a story—“         

“We’re here looking for you. There’s been a little reporting along the way, but barely enough to keep Will’s name and face on ACN, and nowhere near enough to justify this odyssey.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “He wants to see you. I came in first because—frankly, because neither of us is sure if you want to see _him_.”

She rocked back, twisting from his hold.

“It was in everyone’s best interests that I leave ACN,” she insisted, the continuation of an argument she’d played in her head for the last two weeks. “It wasn’t his—I _knew_ what I was doing. Even so, I wanted to stay till the end of the election coverage, you know. I’m not unprofessional, I _should_ have stayed and seen the show through, but—“ She clasped her fingers over her mouth while she struggled with composure. “We quarreled a second time. It was—“

“Really bad. It would have had to have been.”

She arched an eyebrow in surprise.

“So, you ran.” He sighed. “Mac, I’m your friend and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go out there and make excuses, give you time to think or just to get the hell out of Dodge again. But I have to say, and you know I’m no fan—he’s come a long way. And I don’t mean just distance.”

“This is really shitty timing, Jim. I haven’t slept in two days and I’m just so— _so tired_. I don’t know if I can bear doing this. _Again_.”

He held her eyes until she dropped her gaze, one side of her mouth hitching up in a sad smile.

“Tell him he can come in.”

Jim squeezed her shoulder in affirmation before slipping out the door.

 

 

Mac ran a hand through her hair, suddenly aware of the tangles, knowing that there were hollows in her cheeks and a weary dullness in her eyes. She knew how rough she must look and she didn’t want to appear _this way_ in front of Will.

 _Exposed_.

But there was simply no time to prepare.

She heard the door open and turned, bracing herself for whatever would come next.

He stood at the door, partially shadowed. She faced him for long seconds, before finally asking, “Will?”

Stepping closer, he appeared to be struggling for words. “Jim said, he said you—“

“I’m surprised to see you here, Will. This is a bit out of your usual sphere.” She noticed rings of rolled gauze around his right bicep. “What happened?”

He advanced to just inches from her. “Mac—“ then he pulled her to him. “Jesus, Mackenzie—“

She acquiesced to a brief embrace but then squirmed away. Nothing good would come of prolonging this.

He released her, sensing her discomfort.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said.

“Yes. Well. I wasn’t lost, you know.” She tried to soften the words with a wan smile.

“No, I suppose not.” Pause. “I’d pictured this differently—“

“You thought you would take me in your arms and what?—fade to black?”

He looked sheepish. “Maybe.”

“And you came 7,000 miles to tell me you’re sorry?”

“I _am_ sorry. But I came 7,000 miles to tell you I—“

“Stop,“ she whispered, suddenly frightened of where he might be going.

“Mac, hear me out. We both know damned well you aren’t here because of Genoa. You’re here because I was too slow to say the things that might’ve— _would_ _have_ eased your burdens.” He reached for her hands but she suddenly clasped them together and dropped them in front of her, thwarting his attempted gesture and erecting a small barrier to further contact.

He soldiered on despite the implication. “Charlie wants you back—he was fucking furious with me—Reese and Leona—Maggie and Kendra and Sloan and everybody else. I—“ he began to falter, “I want you back home, too, Mac. But if you feel that New York isn’t your home anymore, if you can’t go back with me—then let me stay here with you, anywhere—just, _with you_ … And if you can’t tell me now, I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as you need me to. I didn’t come here to bring you home, I came here because you are my home. I can’t be anywhere else, anywhere you’re not. So if you want to stay, if you need to stay, I have to be here too.”

Mac seemed to flinch back, and when she spoke, her voice was pitched slightly higher than normal with nervous stress. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get a do-over after—after—“ [The right word didn’t come. _Neglect_? _Emotional abuse_?] “—all _this_.” It was inexact, but there wasn’t a chance he’d misunderstand. Her hands felt icy and she knew they were trembling; it was why she’d clapped them together.

“I can’t be just your producer, Will. Charlie was wrong, I was wrong. You couldn’t hurt me unless I loved you, so this needs to end, this _has_ to end. It’s been years and I simply have to stop the bleeding now. I can’t be around you.”

He couldn’t help but register a slight “oof” as that piano dropped on him.

“I don’t know why the hell Jim brought you here, but—but thank you for coming, and you can go home now. I’ll send Charlie something, a letter. I’ll make it sound better, he won’t find you at fault in this—“

“And what about Sloan? Maggie? Jim? Are they going to be your collateral damage?”

“They’re _yours_ , Will. Not mine.” She retreated three more steps and ran a hand over her forehead, begging a moment to consider what was happening. “I don’t want to be harsh. I’d like to—“

“Spare my feelings?” he offered bitterly.

“Yes.” She looked him squarely in the eye and offered no further rationale because she feared losing her grasp on her composure. It seemed as though her mind was fogged by anger, by the tension and discomfort of the trip back from Damascus, by the anxiety borne of waiting for events that never transpired. “Will. I’m not entirely sure what I’m saying right now. I just came from three days on the line—I’ve been awake forever and right before you got here, I took an Ambien with an aquavit chaser. I never expected to find you and Jim waiting on the doorstep and I’m not processing any of this very well.” She exhaled and closed her eyes briefly, relaxing her stance and falling into more of a characteristic fretful pose.

“I think I just need to crash right now. I feel as though I’m at my limit.”

“Of course.” He struggled to keep his voice neutral, to betray none of his feeling. “Can I take you to your hotel?” Then, sensing he might not be a welcome companion, “Can I get Jim for you?”

“My hotel is right over there.” She indicated a distressed sofa across the room and reached for a tattered fleece jacket hanging from a chair. “Designer duvet.”

“Take my room. I’ll get another.”

“Will. Please.” She forced a small smile. “You’re exhausting, you know? I’ll be fine here. Just let me have an hour’s rest, okay?”

“Okay.” Pause. “You want me to stay or go?”

“Suit yourself.” She dropped onto the sofa with a deep sigh. Within seconds her expression relaxed and her breathing began to level and deepen.

 

 

She slept for three hours, and when she woke, pushing up onto one elbow, she was more amused than annoyed to find him sitting in a chair at the far edge of the room.

“Is this the part where I’m eating scrambled eggs in my pajamas?” She swung her legs to the floor. “For some reason, I thought I’d dreamed you.”

“Must be the Ambien.” He gestured to a lidded cup and a butcher-wrapped package on the table. “No scrambled eggs, but I found some tea. And a sandwich. You should eat something.”

She sipped at the tea and picked at the sandwich. It was a good way to delay talking again.

He sipped at his Diet Coke and fiddled with the tab.

“Will, I’m sorry. For what I said, before. I was a little strung out by the trip, and no sleep—“

“Mac, we each said the lines we’d been rehearsing for weeks.” He finally looked up. “I don’t think you said anything that I didn’t need to hear.“

“You don’t deserve to have me unload on you.”

“Interestingly, you would get an argument from me about that. But let’s just let it go for now. How about we call a truce for dinner tonight? Three amigos?” he added, pointedly including Jim, just in case that fact was crucial to the decision.

“Dinner sounds good. But I need to do a few things here first, and I need a shower. Probably smell like a goat.”

“There’s a great shower at my hotel. Bathroom like a marble palace—no, a temple. Goats are standing in line for miles.” He slid the plastic keycard to her. “Finish up here, Mac, then come on over. I won’t get in your space,” he added, as if she might need reassurance that he understood now where the boundaries were drawn.

 

 

In mid-afternoon, MacKenzie knocked at the door of Will’s hotel room, but when it became apparent he wasn’t there, she let herself in. She lingered in the shower, letting the water pummel her neck and shoulders, pound away some of the tension. He was right, the bathroom was a virtual temple to hygiene. Afterward, she dug stubborn grime from under her fingernails, tended the dime-sized blister on the back of her right foot, replaced the bandaid over the small laceration on her calf, and, finally, slipped on the hotel’s terrycloth robe. Suddenly seized by another bout of bone-crushing weariness, she eased onto the edge of the bed, rationalizing that she would close her eyes for just a few minutes.

“Mac? MacKenzie?”

She frowned. Shadows had overtaken the room and she was momentarily disoriented. “What time is it? I didn’t mean to—“

“You needed the sleep. Don’t worry about it.”

Will turned on the lamp but retreated to stand a dozen feet away.

“Jim and I were looking at footage from yesterday. Just finished.” He stared at her with concern. “You’re okay?”

“Fell asleep.” She started to stretch, then caught herself. “Thanks for the use of the shower, by the way. Felt good.”

“Jim’s going to meet us downstairs in about twenty minutes. We’re just going to eat at the hotel restaurant tonight, if that’s all right.”

“That’s good. Uh—I need to finish—“

“Take as long as you need. I’ll be downstairs.”

 

 

MacKenzie’s initial reticence crumbled after only ten minutes in the company of Will and Jim. The first glass of Zahlawi wine didn’t hurt, either. Though she still seemed quiet, she managed an indulgent smile as she listened to the other two. Will nurtured his own reserve, mustering studied charm and even self-deprecation in badinage with Jim.

Jim, meanwhile, had sensed a need to assume responsibility for steering the conversation.

“We arrived at the refugee camp just as a team from the U.N. High Commissioner’s office was making an inspection. Good thing, actually, since they—“ Jim noticed Will’s warning look, “—well, it was a nice bit of serendipity. Allowed Will to ask the questions of the body supposedly overseeing the humanitarian services for displaced peoples.”

“I’m envious. DR missed all the action in Damascus—“

“The aerial bombing a few weeks ago?“

“I missed it. Joined the team late, and we always seemed to be on the recovery side. The _Das Erste_ team has gotten the majority of the stories in the pool.” She grimaced. “I seem to have turned into something of a news Jonah.”

“It’s hard for me to fathom anyone would _complain_ about missing having tons of iron dropped on them.” Will’s sarcasm belied what he was really thinking. _Fuck, Mac. Were you hellbent on suicide to escape me_?

“I don’t remember you as a Jonah, Mac,” Jim rushed to say. “Seems like you and I have always done pretty well. Perhaps I’m the bad luck—“ He didn’t even have to make eye contact to know that Will was glaring at him for letting loose another ambiguous and vaguely leading remark. He hastened to neutralize it. “Anyway, we think we were able to put together something worthwhile about the refugee crisis here. Charlie should be pleased.”

“When does it air?”

“Tonight, perhaps?” Will looked at his watch. “We uploaded it a few hours ago.”

Her smile looked less sad. “Perhaps some of your good luck will rub off on me and when we go back to the line—“

“Mac, you’re not seriously planning to go back with DR.”

She blinked at his sudden vehemence.

“Come back to ACN. _News Night_ needs you. Charlie’ll find you a place anywhere you want. Name your terms. Hell, you can even take that offer that Jim thinks I don’t know he’s worked out for the pair of you at ABC.”

She looked pained. “Let’s not have this conversation now.”

While the two glowered at each other, Jim did the only thing he could think of to break the mood. He knocked over the carafe of water.

He jumped up and began to ineffectually blot the spill. Will eased the table back so that Mac could stand, and two waiters rushed over to consider the damage. It was determined that they should be moved to another table, with dry linens and new set up. By the time they were situated again, Will’s cell phone registered an incoming call.

“Charlie.” He looked up. “Let me take this. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he was out of the room, MacKenzie smiled and tilted her head. “Well. That was _un_ -obvious. _Dis_ -obvious. _In_ -obvious. You know what I mean.” Her eyes crinkled in a familiar way.

“I was improvising.”

She looked after Will.

Jim continued. “He’s right. Lenny Barnett at ABC is interested. Guaranteed twelve months with an option for another twelve.”

She made a noncommittal hum.

“Mac. Why not skip the DR thing? You don’t need the professional validation. You’re not getting anything out of this. Especially not salary.”

“Not from you, too, Jimmy—“

“Stop running, Mac. You’re acting as if you’ve fallen from grace somehow, and that’s just not so. You didn’t do anything wrong. Dantana’s petition was a bust, not even water-cooler conversation. The show needs you.”

“I miss them all, she admitted.

“Yeah, well, there’s a fix for that. He knows it,” he jerked a thumb in the direction Will had gone. “Cut him some slack.” At her expression, he added, “Okay, yeah, I’ve seen his asshole pose, but sometimes he can—I mean, I think he half believed I would sell him to pirates in Tripoli when we got here. It was actually pretty funny.“

“How did he hurt his arm?”

“I’d better let him talk about that—he gets kind of prickly and I don’t want to—here he is now.”

Will returned, relaying messages from Charlie about the video [“ _Top of B block—can’t lead with a foreign story that doesn’t have bodies or al-Qaida, but it’s a_ good _piece, Will_ ”] and from Charlie and the bullpen to Mac.

 

 

After a leisurely dinner and conversation that now carefully hewed to neutral subjects, Jim bade the other two good-night and left them to finish what remained of the second bottle of wine.

“I should be going, too.”

“Stay a few more minutes. Please.” He poured the last of the wine into her glass. “You’ll sleep better,” he insisted when she looked as if to protest. “You could use more sleep, you know.”

“Do I still resemble something— _how did you put it_ —grown in the dark?”

“Bad hyperbole on my part. You are—“ He paused with prosecutorial theatricality, and leaned against the table on both elbows.

“I am _grateful_ , for a pleasant evening,” she said, rushing to fill the space before he could continue. “It’s been— _nice—_ to visit with you and Jim. I’ve missed— _this—_ andI really have to be going now myself. Early call tomorrow.”

“Stay here tonight,” he blurted. “It’s more comfortable—you shouldn’t have to—and you don’t have to worry, I won’t—“ Mercifully, he finally stopped and started over. “What I’m saying, what I’m trying to say is, you deserve a place that’s comfortable. I’ll sleep on the sofa, or get another room. You deserve something better than the company hovel.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Will. Under the circumstances.” Slight smile. “But I’ll let you call me a taxi.”

“You didn’t return my calls.”

The accusation took her by surprise. “I didn’t return _any_ calls. To _any_ one,” she lobbed back, rising. “On second thought, you don’t have to bother about the taxi, I’m sure the doorman—“

“Mac, goddammit, I love you.”

She looked as though she’d been struck.

“I want to bring you home—let me—“ He reached for her hand.

She fled.

 

 

Late the next morning, Jim wandered round to the DR nerve center, such as it was. He caught the door as one man exited and let himself in. Mac, in her half reading glasses, was seated at a table in front of a laptop, and a blonde man stood closely behind her, looking over her shoulder. They spoke in low tones: _take it back three_ — _no, watch the counter_ — _that’s the one_ — _cut there_.

“Hey, if you’re wrapping up,” Jim said, approaching, “how about lunch?”

“Jonas, this is Jim Harper, senior producer for Atlantis Cable News. We’re old friends. Jim, this is Jonas Sorensen. He’s the production director for this project.”

Handshakes and pleasantries exchanged, Sorensen begged out of joining them. He wanted to organize files and test equipment for a prompt departure the following morning.

Mac slipped on her jacket and led Jim to the food stalls of the souk a few blocks away. They sat outside, comfortable in the sun of the late-November afternoon.

“You’re still seeing Hallie?”

“When I’m not here. When her schedule permits. So, in other words—not very much, not very often. There’s a lot of Skyping, texting, messages in bottles.” Jim squinted at her. “So, I’m guessing things got rocky after I left last night?”

She made a short laugh.

“I could look for that number for the pirates in Tripoli, if you’re interested. Might solve your problem.” He shrugged. “Mac, I was serious about what I said before. This DR thing is a dead end. It’s just running away and it’s going to make smart people in the business wonder what you’re running from, and _then_ they’re going to think of Dantana and Genoa. So, without meaning to, you’re tying yourself to this Genoa thing more completely and blatantly than any stupid lawsuit.” He leaned forward with his most earnest face on. “Not a good career move, Mac.”

“Well, there’s a shortage of good wars just now, Jim.” Pause. “You’re right. Of course. But whatever you’ve cooked up at ABC—“

“Screw ABC. You don’t want to come back to New York because of _Will_. He chased you all the way over here, and that would seem to imply he wants to fix things.”

“When did you two get so chummy?”

“Chummy isn’t the word I’d use. In any event, my loyalty is to you. Just in case you’re wondering.”

They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the din and color of the marketplace and finally finishing the repast with date-filled cookies Mac told him were the regional specialty.

“Charlie’s going to pull us out this week,” Jim sighed, apropos of nothing in particular. “I think the Lansings must be making a lot of noise about Will being gone. Plus, you know, it’s kind of obvious that this really isn’t his usual gig.”

“Damned short-sighted for him to be here anyway. I’m surprised at Charlie letting him come. It’s still dangerous for westerners, there are kidnappings all the time.”

“Doesn’t the same go for you?”

“You and I—we’re both old hands at this now.” She stopped at his expression. “What?”

“You’re the one who shouldn’t be here anymore, Mac.” He seemed to hover on the edge of saying more but hesitated. When he finally spoke again, he changed the subject.

“Why don’t you come over later and we’ll have some drinks and I’ll play for you. If you’re still determined to go back on the line tomorrow, this might be the last chance—for a while.”

“Oh, you brought your guitar?” He let that sail past without additional explanation. “I’d like that, Jim. I need to review the schedules with Jonas, but I could be there by, say, six-thirty.”

“I’ll see you then. I think I’ll just look around here for a bit, maybe do some shopping.”

 

 

Shortly after seven, MacKenzie walked into the hotel bar. It was crowded with bored international businessmen and a dozen or so officious-looking probable bureaucrats. One table was full of people, men and women, of a vaguely military profile. Techno music blared from speakers over the bar. She scanned faces until she finally recognized Jim’s in a dark corner table at the end. As she got nearer, she saw that Will was with him.

“I invited myself. I hope that’s—“

She offered a game smile. “There’s no problem, Will.”

He was relieved. She didn’t seem to hold any residual anger from their face-off the night before.

A waiter appeared with beers and a half carafe of wine.

“I thought you promised me a concert.”

“Too noisy in here,” Jim indicated the crowd across the room. “I’ll play something later if Will makes his suite available as concert hall.”

Will rubbed at his temple as he nodded.

She had to raise her voice a bit to be heard over the noise. “Did your piece air? Did Charlie like it?”

“Well, for what it was—no visible carnage, purely a humanitarian story—he said it got really good reaction. Good numbers.”

“I thought Charlie was immune to numbers.” _That was what he always claimed. But the numbers after the Genoa expose had put lie to that…_

“Not when the story gets picked up by CBS and ITV, replayed in its entirety. Fox ran it, too, but an edited version.”

“Still. That’s impressive.” She turned to look at Will, who hadn’t said anything. “Does that mean you’ll be here for a follow-up?”

“I’d like to—but Charlie and I need to talk about it. Reese is getting antsy, wants me back at the desk.” He tipped back his beer, hoping to put a little alcoholic blur on the slight headache that had developed over the course of the day. “How about you stay put and produce the follow-up for us?”

“You have a good producer already.” She smiled at Jim.

“Well, we were thinking about giving you a try out—you know, bring you on as an intern, kind of a probationary thing,” Jim added, playing along. “Maybe you could check sound levels for us and carry— _ouch_!”

After finishing their drinks, they relocated to the sitting room of Will’s suite, whereupon he called room service for snacks and more drinks.              

“Okay, it isn’t a Stradivarius,” Jim began apologetically, giving the guitar a quick strum.

“Check your mid-range. I think you’re out of tune again.” While Jim bent his ear to the sound hole, Will offered explanation to Mac. “The bracing on the inside isn’t symmetrical. So when it’s strung opposite to how it was intended, the tension of the strings isn’t sufficient to counterbalance. It’s always pulling itself out of tune.” He shrugged. “But it works okay in the short term. Just have to keep tuning.”

Jim played a rapid quartet of songs, all somewhere in the alt or rock spectrum, only two of which she recognized. When he finally paused for a beer, he asked archly, “How about something by Del Shannon?”

“ _No_. No Del Shannon.” Will was emphatic, almost comically so.

Puzzled by that cryptic exchange, Mac counter-offered, “Green Day?”

Jim knew only “Wake Me When September Ends” and “Good Riddance,” and he made short work of both, omitting any fancy fingerwork or chordal embellishments. Will, never an easy man to read, seemed more opaque than usual this night. He’d declined when Jim offered the guitar to him, so Jim didn’t want to engage in anything that could be construed as competitive musicianship.

The evening seemed to be winding down, so when Mac asked to borrow his loo, Will nodded, asking her to bring some aspirin with her when she returned. The alcohol hadn’t eased his headache.

She returned with the aspirin and her demeanor much changed. She seemed withdrawn but nervous. After another song, she reached to touch Jim’s arm.

“Would you mind—I’m so sorry, Jim, but would you mind if we cut this short tonight ?” It was obvious she had something on her mind.

He swung the guitar down. “No problem.” He looked in her face for a clue as to what, if anything, he should propose next. _Dinner? More drinks downstairs? Or did she mean an early end to the evening?_ “You’re tired and—“

“I need to talk to Will.”

“Um, sure.” He looked over to where Will mirrored his own mild surprise. “Can I—I mean, I’ll see you before you leave tomorrow morning?”

"I _promise_ you’ll see me tomorrow, Jimmy.”

He felt better. _Relieved_. He let himself out, securing another promise from Mac. “See you in the morning—“ and ensuring he saw her nod agreement.

Will was trying, with difficulty, to show no expression. He didn’t know what this was about. It was probably not a good thing, except that he couldn’t remember having pissed Mac off in the last couple of hours. He’d tried very hard, actually, to be sociable. Companionable. He looked at her expectantly.

“You lied to me.”

“ _Wha_ —“

 “You lied to me. You told me you returned it.” She was holding the Tiffany’s box.

 “How did you—where—“

 “You sent me for aspirin. I looked where _normal_ people keep aspirin. How was I to know you use the medicine cabinet as a wall safe?”

He remembered now. He’d had the ring in his pocket all day the day before, wanting to have it available should the conversations with Mac have ever veered in his favor. But they hadn’t, and that night he’d replaced the ring in its teal blue box and then, because it was late and he didn’t want to make another trip to the lobby for the hotel safe, shoved it into the medicine cabinet. He figured it would be more secure there than buried in a drawer, hidden beneath clothes.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you hadn’t taken it back?”

“Because it suddenly seemed— _Jesus_ , it didn’t seem like you’d ever want to see it again. Banner of my deceit. I mean, I was really torn about even bringing it, and then I thought that if you wouldn’t see me, I’d just throw it into the sea.”

“For the geographically challenged among us, the _sea_ is presently thirty five miles to the west. And what you said last night at dinner—“

“ _Of course I love you_.” All one breathless italicized phrase; he sounded almost indignant. “Why else would I be _here_? I’m no Ernie Pyle. I read fucking news commentary off a fucking teleprompter from the twenty-fourth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper.”

She squeezed his upper arm gently, provoking a slight wince. “And what’s this?”

“Clumsiness. I got a scratch getting out of a car.”

From her expression he could tell that she didn’t buy it, but that she wasn’t about to challenge him on it at this moment.

He swallowed, allowing long seconds to pass before he spoke again.

“Mac, I know there’s a scar I haven’t seen, and that there are others that have been right in front of me and I haven’t paid attention. But you are not going to be hurt anymore, not on my account, and not for any other reason that I can help.”

“Wasn’t I ‘ _the dream from which it happened well that you awoke’_?”

He reached for her hands. “You were the best, the _only true thing_ I’ve ever had, MacKenzie.”

She exhaled. “I think—I think I might be beginning to believe this—“

The hopefulness in her voice gave him the courage to come closer. He plainly needed to kiss her, to seal this deal, and she was giving no sign at all that she would resist such a move.

“Can you take us back six years, Billy?”

 _That’s it_.

Cupping her face in both hands and pulling her close, just wanting to gaze at her for a moment before closing his eyes and pressing lips to hers. He fought to remain tender and slow, no idea where this was going but determined not to let it end over his own eagerness. She pulled from the kiss first and he felt his heart sink.

A hint of wry amusement crossed her face. “What other coercive tactics did you plan to employ?”

Thus encouraged, he returned to her lips, and the second kiss was searing honesty, reflecting how much depended upon getting this right this time. He wanted to convince her _this_ was real, _this_ was right, _this_ was how things would be from now on. Her hands slipped up to his shoulders and his twined slowly into her hair. He pushed against her, needing to feel her warmth and softness pressed to him, and he dropped his head to plant soft wet kisses to her collarbone and at the hollow of her throat.

"You’ve got to be on the level with me, Billy,” she whispered. “I couldn’t take—“

“I’m completely on the level, Mac, and I’ll never hurt you again.”

At that, she initiated the kiss, her soft mouth at once yielding and making its own demands.

His hands traced down, crushing her into his chest before slipping to cup her ass. He pulled back this time, breathing ragged and senses inflamed. He had to fight to focus. He didn’t want to get this wrong.

“I want to make love to you, MacKenzie.”

“After this—I think you’d better.”

He bent to kiss her again, this time scooping her in his arms as well. When he staggered briefly, searching for a light switch in the bedroom, she giggled into the kiss. “I remember you being smoother than this.”

“I’m gonna give you smooth—“

He gently eased her to the bed, his hands on her shoulders as he looked stupidly at her. He drew his palms down her arms, grasping wrists that seemed impossibly delicate, threading their fingers briefly, then lifting and kissing her hands. Relearning a private language of sensation and touch, his hands slipped under her sweater, molding to her breasts, fingers tracing the areola and rolling each nipple between thumb and forefinger.

She made a slight whimper of frustration and tugged at his shirt, loosening the collar and digging at buttons. He was doing better, faster, drawing the cotton sweater over her head, unfastening the top button of her jeans and beginning to work them over her hips. She steadied herself on his shoulders, allowing him to lift and reposition her on the bed.

“I need to taste you.”

Nudging her legs apart, he dipped to press tiny wet kisses on the inside of her thigh, dropping occasional nips just to hear her gasp in surprise. His torturously slow approach heightened her desire and he moved to target with unhurried but relentless strokes. He used one hand to pull her folds taut, and she moaned in appreciation and anticipation, her hands twisting and fluttering on his neck and in his hair.

“Billy… Billy… up here. I need you inside… please—“

He acquiesced but still on his own inexorable timetable, stopping along the way to suck and bite at her breasts, tease first one then the other nipple to hard points.

He paused briefly to kick off his jeans, and found himself momentarily disconcerted by her stare, not as ill-focused with desire as he had hoped; there was enough clarity in her gaze to suggest distant hurt, sadness. He took her in another deep kiss, intent upon driving away whatever it was in her eyes. She responded with another soft moan and reached to stroke him.

He pulled her on top, whispering, “I want to see you, I want to see you like I’ve seen you in my mind for so long.”

She slid slowly onto him, releasing a deep sensual sigh. Her eyes closed briefly and she tilted her head forward so that her hair fell like a curtain over her face. Wordlessly, he pushed it back, and she reopened her eyes, locking her gaze with his.

She began a slow undulating movement, losing herself in feeling the warm pressure surging from within. His hands and eyes mapped her torso, cupping her breasts, stroking her flanks with the back of his fingers. Finally, when she leaned forward to brace herself on his shoulders, he slipped a hand between her legs and gently but firmly matched the pistoning action happening elsewhere.

“God—Will—“ She paused in mid-roll of her hips, feeling the wave peaking, breaking, falling, scattering, and reforming.

He reached for her hips, both to steady her and to bring himself to join her, and he brought himself home moments later.

 

 

The room was still dark but she knew it was morning. She stirred against him.

“I love you, Billy.”

“You could have said so last night, you know,” he mumbled indistinctly.

“Wanted to make you work for it.” She snuggled back against his impossibly warm shoulder. “Hey. It’s morning. We need to get up.“

He dropped back into a snooze, but ever dutiful, she rose and began to assemble the discarded components of her clothing. He watched her through slit eyes.

“I really have to get moving. I have to tell Jonas I won’t be going with the team today.” She got no reaction, so she gestured to shower.  “Your temple of hygiene—mind if I go first?”

“Every temple deserves a goddess.”

Rolls eyes. “You’re beginning to gild the lily— _Billy_ ,” she scolded lightly, just goofy enough with morning-after love to make awful puns. “And every goddess needs a high priest—“

He sat up with a start, then bolted to his feet. “Mac?” He shook his head then seemed to sway a tiny bit. “What are you—“ was all she heard before his knees appeared to buckle and he pitched back to the bed.

 

 


	3. In Your Fire and in Your Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Neither Will nor Jim spoke of the obvious, which was that they were now effectively marooned in a refugee shantytown. No driver, no fixer. No local language skills. No apparent resources, and certainly no one to whom they could parlay Will’s celebrity into lodging or transportation. Jim suddenly felt like an idiot. He’d put them in this situation when his field-experience-honed judgment should have warned them off._

 

 

“You are the wife?”

“Yes.” The hell with accuracy, it was the most expedient response.

The doctor, identified by the badge on his white coat as _Dr. Youssef Howayek_ , pushed his glasses up so that they rested just forward of his comb-over. “Your husband’s blood pressure is very low—that’s what has caused the momentary loss of consciousness.” He considered. “If I may ask, what was his mood immediately prior to the episode?”

“We’d been talking. Then it seemed—just for a moment—as though he’d forgotten where he was—“

He made a note. “And the wound on his arm—?”

Mac turned to Jim expectantly.

“He was pushed against a wall. There was exposed rebar—he snagged it pretty hard. I irrigated it as well as I could at the time.” Then, looking at Mac, he added, “I told him it should probably be looked at by a doctor or someone.”

But exculpation was a hard sell with Mac just now. She crossed her arms protectively.

The doctor slid his glasses back onto his nose and consulted the chart. “I suspect this event is some infection related to the injury. The blood work will tell us more, perhaps in a few hours. In the meantime, we have started intravenous fluids. He’s sleeping, so why don’t you get something to eat and return?”

               

From a small café adjacent to Khoury General Hospital, Mac ordered two coffees and then fixed Jim with a withering glare.

“Fell out of a car? Seriously?”

“Is that what he told you?” Jim shook his head. “There was a bit more to it than that.”

“I should hope.”  Her phone chirped and she glanced at it, and he remembered that she had been scheduled to return to Damascus with the DR crew this morning. “Sorensen?”

“I think he’s probably figured out by now that I’m not going with them, but I ought to call him back in a little while. I even warned him yesterday that there was a good chance I wouldn’t.”

Curiosity was getting the better of him on another matter, though. “I was just wondering how you happened to be—I mean, when I left you last—“

“We spent the night together. The two of us. _Will and I_ ,” she added, with no small amount of impatience at his affectation of naiveté.   “Alert the media. I would have thought it was rather obvious. Now—“ she focused on him, “you have a lot to answer for, Jim. Bringing him here—coming here yourself. The pair of you, treating me like some trophy to drag back—“ She forced an exhale to calm herself. “Start now. Tell me everything.”

 _Jesus, Mac_.

He cleared his throat. “He and I had different motives in the beginning. I just wanted to find you, beg you to let me join your team—and I was willing to let ACN pay for the trip. Charlie sent me along to babysit him, keep him out of trouble—“

“—So, _you_ had decided from the outset that you were going to ditch Will and betray Charlie’s trust?”

“It wasn’t—I mean, I wouldn’t have _really_ let anything—“

“Except you kind of _did_ ,” she established. “And you know well that you couldn’t really have stopped things from going south. A car bombing—“

“This is _Lebanon_ , Mac, no one’s at war here—“

“How about _abduction_ , then? They’re epidemic here, and you bloody well know it. Nearly 30 journalists have been snatched since the Syrian civil war began and at least a dozen of those are still being held.   What was your secret plan to prevent that?” She slammed her cup to the table.

“And there is some force field around _you_ , protecting _you_?” he shot back in a harsh whisper. “Don’t fault us for risking the same hazards you seem to want to embrace. Will wouldn’t even be here, neither of us would be, if you hadn’t cut and run—“

“What?”

“You ran out on us, Mac. The show, the people in the newsroom. I can’t speak to what happened between you and Will, but nobody at ACN deserved abandonment.”

“I didn’t abandon them. It’s complicated. I was ashamed—“

“You had no cause to be. A lot of bright people got taken in by Genoa. Besides, Charlie had the ultimate responsibility, not you.” After a painful pause, he looked at his watch then back to her. “We don’t have time to argue and I really don’t want to argue with you anyway. Let me try to get through this as quickly as I can.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“It, um—it started with a joke. Except it really wasn’t very funny.”

 

_The road from Zahle to Bar Elias was, as the road from Beirut had been, four narrow lanes flanked by steep embankments and studded with fissures in the tarmac. Their vehicle, a Mercedes SUV of ancient vintage, seemed able enough, despite a certain visual decrepitude, to make the scant twenty mile journey to the refugee settlement area, but the fixer recommended by Mathias was an immediate liability. He spoke no English, only parroting a few phrases, and once on the road it became apparent he didn’t understand the rudimentary instructions Jim tried to convey. They were summarily deposited at the edge of the refugee settlement, where the road ended and the driver departed._

_Such was the comeuppance of the_ Das Erste _team’s professional resentment._

_Jim shifted the pack containing camera equipment and looked around. The overpowering smell of braziers and rotting food assailed him, and to one side he could see women and children picking at a mountain of garbage, the obvious dumping grounds of the nearby Lebanese town of Bar Elias. Two small cinderblock structures, once either equipment sheds or guard shacks, their corners crumbled and facades cloaked in graffiti, seemed the line of demarcation into the settlement. Children’s faces peered from the broken windows and lined the dark doorways._

_Neither Will nor Jim spoke of the obvious, which was that they were now effectively marooned in a refugee shantytown. No driver, no fixer. No local language skills. No apparent resources, and certainly no one to whom they could parlay Will’s celebrity into lodging or transportation._

_Jim suddenly felt like an idiot. He’d put them in this situation when his field-experience-honed judgment should have warned them off._

_"Lead on.” Will zipped his jacket against the chill wind and looked askance at the foot-worn rut that constituted the way into the settlement. He was terse but seemingly committed to following Jim._

 

“Will wanted to file something, a story of some kind. I think he wanted to give something back to Charlie, you know. Neither of us was vested in this particular story, at least, not at the start. We certainly weren’t prepared for what we saw when we wandered into that camp—but we should have been, given the fact that upwards of a million displaced Syrians are in-country now.” He rolled his eyes in a gesture of impatience. “It started off as just something to mark time until we could meet up with you

She blinked slowly. “Go on.”

“The conditions in the camps are dire, by even the most generous of terms. Shelters are tents made of plastic sheets nailed to wooden frames. There’s no infrastructure of any kind, no electricity, no sanitation. Water comes from a communal spigot.” A bitter smile came to his lips. “Hell, the Lebanese even forbid the refugee settlements from officially being labeled as camps, because they think that denotes permanence.” He shook his head. “Semantics.”

“But charity and relief organizations—“

“The NGOs are stretched thin. This is a crisis across many countries.”

 

_Jim felt many eyes on them as they negotiated the path, occasionally dodging an errant child or a sullen elder. Almost unconsciously, he had started humming some old doo wop [“As I walk along-- I wonder what went wrong—“], until Will hissed at him to knock it off._

_A startling number of people had begun to line the path, watching them intently for some hint of the reason for their visit. Strangers in the camp were often the conduit of assistance, of food, medicine, or money, but Jim was unable to tell if the crowd of obviously desperate people watched with hope or curiosity. Perhaps apathy, he thought, or even cynicism, as surely they knew by this time that only the most urgent needs could hope for respite, that there would be no easy or immediate solution for the disarray of their homeland and the circumstances that had brought them here. Despite the growing mass of people, they parted easily to allow Will and him to walk through._

_Following the well-trod trail, they arrived at a clearing with a cluster of sturdier looking canvas tents. Refugee interest in them began to wane as they approached what appeared to be the crossroads of the settlement. Scores of young girls holding plastic jugs stood in line a hundred yards away, waiting their turns to catch water falling from three exposed pipes. Will tapped him on the shoulder and indicated the first structure, ducking through the open flap._

“It was a Doctors-Without-Borders team. They were there monitoring disease in the camp. Tuberculosis. Cholera. Diseases endemic to refugees. Will talked with the team leader while I went off and tried to unobtrusively shoot some B roll stuff.” He leaned across the table. “Mac, you know I’m not squeamish. You and me—we’ve seen the poverty, we’ve seen the diseased and disfigured kids. I thought I was inured to it, but—if ever a world audience was needed—

“Anyway, when I returned, a videographer for Al Jazeera was there, too, and he told us that someone with the U.N.’s High Commissioner for Refugees would be making a side trip to the camp the following day, part of a wider swing through the Bekka valley. He offered to take us back to Zahle for the night and return the next day, but we opted to stay and make the most of daylight shooting.” Jim paused. “Actually, Will kind of insisted. He had gotten quieter as the day wore on. I mean, I think he was just taking it all in and trying to figure a way to make sense of it, of the experience.

“The NGO let us overnight in their tent, which by the way was cold as hell but at least blocked the wind. And there was an open fire in an oil drum outside, so we could go out there and warm up a bit.”

He put up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say, so let me head you off. We _were_ careful. I went with him anywhere he went that night. The Al Jazeera guy said that the camp had a lot of factions within it—Sunnis aligned with al-Qaeda, pro-Assad moles. Not to mention your basic garden-variety predators.”

“Anyway, the trouble didn’t come until later the next day.”

 

_Trying to do the editing in his mind as they worked, Jim framed Will in front of the heap of refuse at the head of the camp. He had lobbied for using the medical tent as background, but Will was adamant that a visual shocker was needed. And although the home audiences would (mercifully) be spared the noxious smells of the dump, the image of children scavenging through the filth would create an indelible impact. Will’s instinct was correct, Jim conceded._

_Will kept his remarks extemporaneous rather than scripted. The visuals would carry this piece, they both knew, but the words were important, too. It was vital to convey the pathos, the scale and relentlessness of the suffering._

_"Just outside Bar Elias, in the cold, arid Bekka Valley, over 15,000 displaced Syrians are effectively squatting on the soil of a country that is an unwilling host. It’s harder out here in the less populated area of the country—in Beirut, refugees can slink down into the urban landscape, eke out a fringe existence. Out here, they are almost entirely at the mercy of the locals who contain them. And a cold and dismal winter is coming.”_

_Jim waited for Will’s pause to signal a cut. Next, they would move to the NGOs—_

_Then he followed Will’s gaze to four white Land Cruisers with blue letters on the side, now parking on the opposite side. Two dozen westerners, many in matching powder blue jackets, spilled from the vehicles and seemed to be gathering around local Lebanese officials._

_Jim slung the camera over his shoulder and fell behind Will as he moved to join what was obviously the_ _UNHCR delegation._

 

“It wasn’t the high honcho himself, just some deputy. But it really didn’t matter who it was. We just wanted some reaction from the U.N. about the situation, what was being done about it.

“They were being guided around by two Lebanese officials, and we just sort of joined the retinue. A few of the U.N. group seemed to recognize Will, guess they were based in New York, and he chatted them up as we followed. The centerpiece of the tour was evidently the Norwegian Relief’s effort to distribute materials to build better shelters. Ironic, in a way, because U.N. efforts were nowhere to be seen.”

With a look, Mac tried to prod him to continue.

“Will worked his way to the front of the group and—well, he started quietly with the facts, as we’d learned them. How many people, how long they’d been here in these conditions. How long they might be forced to stay here. Where was the outrage, the aid from the international community. That sort of thing. The thing that Will does every night on the show to liars in suits, he was trying to do the same thing to the U.N. team. Not antagonistic, but persistent. Dogged, you know?”

“I know.” She did.

“I recorded a little of it, but he wasn’t doing it for bombast and it was one of those moments where it seemed journalistically self-serving even to film it, like those “gotchas” on _60 Minutes_ or _Dateline_. But Will genuinely wanted to know. He was appalled by what we found and he was looking for the accountability, he wanted to know what the world was doing about this.” Jim gave a bitter smile. “Of course, the answer is, not very much. Not enough, certainly. And that was the gist of Will’s remarks, when we did resume filming an hour or two later.”

“I want to see it.”

He nodded. “Anyway—despite putting the deputy commissioner on the spot, Will didn’t burn any bridges, and they offered to make room for us in their Land Cruisers for the ride back to Zahle.”

               

_Hours later, as daylight waned and they followed after the delegation, Will and Jim both became aware of a commotion near one of the abandoned cinderblock buildings. A little girl was recoiling from an angry man. He struck her again. From the open handed blows, it seemed obvious that this was discipline, not assault, but the child’s age (perhaps five?) made it criminal nonetheless._

_Will’s head whipped around at the girl’s cries._

_"Hey—hey—stop that—“_

_Jim reached for his elbow. “Will—we shouldn’t—“_

_"—Tell him to stop that—“ He shook off Jim’s cautionary hand and moved toward the fracas. “You—yeah, you—stop hitting the kid—“_

_"Will, don’t—“_

_But Will had seized the man’s wrist and held it, while the man twisted and shouted what could only be colorful abuse in Arabic. Around them, a crowd of Syrian refugees surged, seemingly on the brink of erupting into action._

_“I don’t understand, I don’t know what you’re saying,” Will countered as the man struggled against him, “just stop hitting her.”_

_The U.N. officials paused as their Lebanese host loped over. He exchanged words with the angry man, offering soothing tones. Will released the other man’s wrist._

_"He says she has stolen.”_

_Will and Jim, who had joined him, followed the Lebanese official’s gaze to the little girl, who was clutching something tightly in her hand._

_A watch._

_It looked familiar._

Christ _._

 _"She didn’t— I_ gave _—look, tell him that I_ gave _that to her.” Will looked anxiously at Jim. “They’re not going to cut off her hand or anything, are they?”_

_Jim slowly shook his head._

_The Lebanese offered further consoling words to the indignant refugee._

_But the Syrian man, while satisfied with exoneration of his daughter, was still displeased at having been made a public fool. Let alone the humiliation of the blonde westerner interfering with the proper discipline of his child. So, as Will and the others made to back away, he abruptly whirled and shoved Will against the cinderblock wall. Just to reaffirm his dignity._

_Two inches of exposed rusty rebar sank through Will’s sleeve and into the muscle of his upper arm._

_Jim’s wince broadcast the injury. The Syrian slunk away and members of the UN delegation hurried forward._

_Jim ripped the jacket sleeve and then the shirt beneath to see the puncture, a small well of blood rising. Will was finally convinced to sit, making things easier on Jim, who was trying to brush fibers and crumbs of rust from the wound site._

_“Here—gimme that,” Jim said to a member of the U.N. team, relieving her of an unopened bottle of water. He used it to flush Will’s arm._

_Aside from a sharp intake of breath when the water initially hit the wound, Will showed no reaction to the fuss being made. In a laconic attempt to deflect attention, he even began, “On the farm—“_

_Jim angrily cut him off. “Hey, plowboy, this isn’t Nebraska. This should be washed out and then looked at by somebody. When was your last tetanus shot?”_

               

“We came back to Zahle in the U.N. convoy. They were staying at the same hotel—probably miffed Will had the biggest suite.” Jim ran a hand through his hair. “And I don’t know why he’s being so damned _dog-in-the-manger-ish_ about what actually happened. The kid was spared a whipping. Old pappy Ahmed will probably slap her around again in the future, and now she’ll have this expectation of rescue.”

“You have to know about Will—“

He held up a hand. “I don’t think you could tell me anything I can’t already guess. Thinks he’s bulletproof.” He sighed. “But it was a nice performance from a guy I didn’t think had it in him. And, besides, you haven’t heard the ironic part. Will _lied_ —he hadn’t given the kid his watch. He told me later that it had been chaffing his wrist that morning so he’d taken it off and stuck it in his pocket. Either it fell out and she found it, or the kid really did swipe it. But he was just so worried her hand would be chopped off.”

_Will, so well-acquainted with the battering of children, particularly and incomprehensibly at the hands of their guardians._

Her phone impatiently chirped again, breaking in on her thoughts. _Sorensen_. She needed to call Jonas, let him know—

“Mac?”

“Go back to the hotel. Find those U.N. support forces, if they’re still there. Tell them they’re going to get a call on behalf of the former Ambassador of the United Kingdom—“

 

When they returned to the hospital, Dr. Howayek wasn’t available and Mac talked to a more voluble junior associate, Dr. Hadad, who had only one question.

“Is there anything in his family history to suggest a compromised immune system?”

She searched her memory. “I don’t think so—he never spoke of—“

“Ms. McHale.” This doctor had not jumped to the same marital conclusion as had the previous one. “Mr. McAvoy’s blood work showed conclusively that this is an episode of sepsis, a cascading systemic inflammation, probably as a result of the wound to his arm. Serious but rarely mortal to a man in otherwise good health. Rather easily treated with antibiotics and intravenous fluids. And a few days’ rest. So, in the absence of any immune-complication, he should recover well.” He smiled at her evident relief.

“When can he be moved?”

“He should remain under observation for another 24 hours, primarily to ensure his blood pressure has stabilized. The extra fluids we’re giving him are important as well.” He considered. “You desire to transfer him to another facility, perhaps the American University Hospital in Beirut?”

 

The second time his eyes opened they stayed open, giving her encouragement enough to prompt, “Will?” And then add, when he didn’t immediately respond, a very producer- _ly_ , “Say something.”

“Don’t hit me.”

She gave a relieved huff. “I won’t.” Then, as she noticed him struggling to swallow, she poured water from the carafe and offered him a glass with a straw.

He sucked at it thirstily. When he finally looked up, he appeared tired and sheepish. “Bungled the rescue, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t need to be rescued.” It still seemed important that she make it clear.

“But I did.”

“Well. You do have a way of making my problems all about you.” She gave him an indulgent smile and leaned to kiss him.

“And a night with you brings a very big hangover.”

“Touché. But just to be clear—this little event is the result of— _falling out of a car_.”

He shifted his gaze to survey the monitors and I.V. but gave a small grunt of affirmation.

She reached for his hand. “Why don’t we let the antibiotics smash the microbes while you chase more sleep? I’m working to get you out of here as soon as possible.”

“Mac—we’re still okay?” Despite the rasp in his voice, she detected uncertainty… vulnerability.

“Everything’s fine, Billy. We’re going to be fine now.”

With that assurance, he lapsed back into sleep.

 

Later in the day, Jim returned with news. The U.N. support team was pleased to be able to offer assistance to the journalist associates and daughter of the former U.K. Ambassador; to this end, it was standing by to provide an airlift to RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus at the earliest opportunity. Mac then tracked down Dr. Hadad and politely badgered him until he agreed that, contingent upon the patient’s continuing and significant improvement, Will could be released to convalesce on his own recognizance as early as the following afternoon.

When Will woke again, it was early evening. Mac was bedside but wore earbuds and was listening intently to something on her laptop. He pushed up in the bed, gratified that the effort worked this time. (Earlier, it had seemed that his muscles were flagrantly insubordinate to commands.)

“You’re back.” She pulled the earbuds from her hair.

“What are you watching?”

“You. Your piece on the refugee crisis. For the second time, actually. It’s really good, Will. Really.”

"Ah. Two really’s from MacKenzie. High praise indeed.” Despite the snark of his words, he looked pleased.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Grateful there’s no Foley?”

She took his meaning. “Why don’t I just step outside for a minute? Should I send someone?“

“I’ve got this. I think. Why don’t you give me a couple of minutes and I’ll—“

“Two minutes. Got it,” she said, backing out the door. She found a nurse and told her to check Will—“But make it seem _casual_ ,” she added, her meaning probably totally lost on the other woman.

When Mac returned, Will was upright, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“First major hurdle to release completed. Eating seems to be next, so they’re going to bring me something. You know how I love Jell-O.”

“I remember.”

“Thanks for staying, Mac.” He reached for her hand. “I know I infuriate you most of the time—“

“—Only when you haven’t worried me sick.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

She made a dismissive wave. “I called my father. Asked him if he could call in any markers at the U.N.” She paused to allow that to register. “So we will be getting a ride to Cyprus tomorrow. First step to taking you home. Assuming you’re ship-shape and all.”

“We’re getting on a boat?”

"No, sorry. I’m mixing my metaphors. What I meant was, they’re going to fly us to the British military base. _In an airplane_ ,” she added, since near-comic specificity seemed to be the order of the day.

There was a soft knock and Jim looked around the door. “Mac, got a minute?” Then, noticing the patient was now ambulatory, added, “Hey, Will. You’re looking better. Feel okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Charlie called. _Demands_ that you call him as soon as you can speak.”

Will nodded.

Jim closed the door behind him and looked back to Mac. “This may not be the best time, but I thought you’d want to know—“

His preamble immediately raised her defensive shields.

“I ran into someone from the _Das Erste_ team. They told me—some journalists were caught in shelling near Homs. That’s a few miles north of Damascus."  He didn’t mean to be melodramatic but felt like he had to pause before giving the rest. “Sorensen’s team.”

She gave an over-rapid nod, not knowing the words to say and not trusting her voice at that moment to carry them.

“Casualties?” Will voiced for her.

“Don’t know. They were in a bunker used by the opposition forces. The Syrian Army has overrun the area now. I imagine there will be some kind of evacuation of the wounded. Repatriation of journalists.” He tried to gauge her reaction. “Mac. Your presence wouldn’t have changed anything for them.”

He was right, and she knew it. But she also knew that she’d run out on another team at a crucial moment.

 _I’m just crazy about loyalty_.

“Mac. Don’t over-think this.” Will looked very concerned at her prolonged silence. He gave her another half- minute, then offered, “Remember the immortal words of the poet, _There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be_.”

That brought her back to herself. “Poet?”

“Okay. John Lennon.” He shrugged and tried to look hopeful.

She finally sighed. “Perhaps. But he was wrong about it being easy.”

A tray arrived for Will and, at his urging, as he tried to adjust the angle of the bed and pillows to accommodate eating, Jim called Charlie.

“James Harper,” Charlie’s voice boomed. “Word has grabbed my ear that you’ve damaged my anchor.”

 _Busted_. Jim winced.

"I’m right here,” Will spoke up. “You’re on speaker, Charlie.”

“Will, what the hell’s going on there?”

“Little infection from a scratch. I’m fine.”

“You’d better be, goddamit. I want the pair of you back as soon as you can find a flight.” Pause. “Will, there’s something else—I might have some bad news. I just got a call from Magnus Lunde at _Danmarks Radio_ and there’s been a report—“

“We’ve heard it, too”

“No one can confirm if she’s—“

“She’s here now.” Will inclined his head. “Say something to Charlie, Mac.”

“Hello, Charlie.”

“ _MacKenzie_? What the—how—when did you—oh, _fuck_. Well, thank God, anyway.” But Charlie recovered quickly.   “Mac, would you like to double your salary? I’m hurting for producers right now.”

The uncertain news about DR made it hard to manufacture a genuine laugh, but she tried, for their sakes.

“Of course, you’ll have the young ones nipping at your heels. Like this brash fellow Harper, who will probably be summoned to testify before Congress—“

“ _What_?” Jim exploded.

“As I was saying, testify before Congress on the humanitarian crisis unfolding in Lebanon. The minority whip is agitating for some special committee to investigate and report on—“

“ _Congress_?” Jim was well and truly astonished.

“—and Will, too, but probably not for a couple of weeks, of course, because they’re in recess for the holiday.” Another dramatic pause. “Good job, boys. Now, get your asses back here before anything else happens. And—Mac—you’re still on the payroll at ACN, you know. Just been on loan to another news agency for a few weeks.”

“But you just offered to double my salary.”

“I figured Will would make up the difference.”

Will gave an exaggerated nod.

“Okay, I hope that’s clear: the three of you back here and ready to go to work on Monday. _Dash-thirty-dash_.”

Jim frowned. “Dash-what?”

“What do they teach you kids in journalism school, anything? _Dash-thirty-dash_. End of the story. That’s it. _Finis_.” Then, in a stage whisper, he added, “ _Murrow and Brinkley must be revolving in their graves,”_ and disconnected _._

 

On Wednesday, Jim had arranged a car and driver standing by at the hospital, but the lugubrious pace of discharge made it mid-afternoon before they were finally loaded. He dropped his own pack to the curb and peered in the passenger window.

“I’m, um, I’m making a detour. If there’s even a chance of a Congressional gig, I need to be a lot more conversant about the problem. There’s another camp a bit south of Beirut, at Ain al-Hilweh, and I thought I’d give it a quick look-see before I head back.” At the look of remonstration on Mac’s face, he hurried to add. “Real quick look. And I’ll be careful.”

“Jim.” Her eyes crinkled in a characteristic expression of concern and bemusement.

He leaned in for a buss on the cheek. “I promise you’ll see me at the first run-down Monday.”

“I’d better.”

“Will.” Jim stuck his hand through the open window. “Take care, man.”

"Thanks for seeing me through.”

Jim straightened. “Oh—I put the guitar in the back, with your bags. It’d be nothing but a nuisance to me for the next couple of days, and I thought maybe you could pick out Del Shannon’s greatest hits while you’re on the beach in Cyprus. Or something like that.”

He thumped twice on the roof of the car and the driver pulled away from the curb.

 

At the Riyaq airport, a Griffin helicopter with markings of the 84 Squadron ferried them to the Sovereign Base of RAF Akrotiri on the southwestern coast of Cyprus. There, they were met by a young uniformed officer who escorted them to a small suite at the visiting officers’ quarters.

“We’re not turning someone out, are we?” Mac felt obliged to ask.

“No’m. No general or flag officers on board at present, and the diplomatic lot usually opt for civilian hotels with greater amenities. We’ve often had journalists popping ‘round, what with the troubles in Syria just now, but you’re the first who also happens to be the daughter of an ambassador. Rather a high rank for this outpost. Oh, the officers’ mess is located around the corner, short walk.” He shot a look at Will. “I believe they can even manufacture a facsimile of your holiday meal tomorrow.”

It took a moment for both of them to realize that tomorrow would be Thanksgiving Day.

Later, after the duty officer had departed, Will plopped onto the sofa in the tiny sitting room.

“Good. You’re down. I was afraid I’d have to send for the tranquilizer darts.” She tried to keep the tone light to mask genuine concern at having moved a barely-ambulatory patient too quickly. “Perhaps you should get some sleep? And some water, you’re still supposed to be forcing fluids…”

“Mac. _Slow down_.” A small smile hitched one side of his mouth. “I’m fine. A little tired—but everything’s okay. Why don’t you check and see if there’s been any messages?”

She placed a bottle of water on the table within his reach then dug for her phone.

“Charlie. There’s an update on the DR team.”

Will sat up, attentive.

“They’re both all right. Arne had some minor lacerations, Jonas some broken fingers.” Her relieved sigh punctuated the report. “Oh, and he’s got the flight information. Day after tomorrow. Layover—Gatwick.” _Considerate_ _Charlie_. She looked up. “He’s already forwarded the information to my father. Hope you’re up for a day with my family.”

He made a mock scowl. “Seems somewhat cruel to inflict future in-laws on a sick man.”

She let the “future in-laws” pass with only a broader smile in reaction. “In any event, they will likely be busy upbraiding me.”

He dug around in his pocket and withdrew the familiar Tiffany’s box. “Actually, Mac, I was thinking we should put this somewhere safe.” Then, taking her hand and sliding it on her finger, added, “That should do.”

“Oh, no, Billy. You’re not getting off that easily. If we’re going to do this, after all this time, I want it _all_.”

“And you shall have it—moonlight, roses, wine, and tender words. _All of it_. But having this thing in my pocket makes me feel like a second-story man, so why don’t you wear it for now? Especially if we’re going to be visiting family.”

“You realize we’ll be flying over water, and if I fall out that rock is going to drag me to the bottom.”

“First, let me say that I consider it unlikely you will simply fall out of an airliner. And, second—“ he grabbed for her other hand, “I’m not letting go.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Titles borrowed from the song by Coldplay.


End file.
